


merrily down the stream

by call_me_steve



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: 'hey remember this thing that happened to u', Angst with a Happy Ending, Bad Parents Jack and Janet Drake, Childhood Memories, Damian Wayne Has a Heart, Damian Wayne is a Little Shit, Gen, Good Sibling Damian Wayne, Good Sibling Dick Grayson, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Mr. and Mrs. Drake's A+ Parenting, Tim Drake Angst, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, and now i can't stop thinking abt it lmao, catch me sharing too much info lmao, dames is like ten in this one jsyk, fuck the drakes me and my homies hate the drakes, haha get it drown bc it's abt canoes n water, he's the smartest dumbass, it's bad memories tho, not tagging all the relationships or i'd drown, so anyway a friend of mine went, so rip timbers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-12 11:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29384394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/call_me_steve/pseuds/call_me_steve
Summary: Bruce steps around the corner, dressed in funny shorts with sharks and flames patterned over it. Tim realizes they're swim shorts almost as quickly as he registers the beach towel swung over Bruce's shoulder- still dry and folded, so he hadn't just got back from somewhere.Beside him is Alfred, holding a bundle of multicoloured towels of his own. "Master Timothy," he greets, once he sees Tim. "Good morning."Bruce's greeting comes in the form of ruffling Tim's hair, upsetting the already awful bedhead he'd been sporting. "We were just about to come wake you up," explains Bruce, gesturing to the towels. "We're going canoeing."Tim fights back a full body cringe.-Tim has a bad time while canoeing because he recalls a childhood experience. Dick and Damian help.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Damian Wayne, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson, Tim Drake & Dick Grayson & Damian Wayne
Comments: 30
Kudos: 357





	merrily down the stream

**Author's Note:**

> i miss summer :)

Tim pads through the halls, feet completely silent as they press against the hardwood floors. Despite not being dressed in anything more than sleep shorts and a tank top, he doesn't shiver at the low temperature. It's the middle of summer and, oftentimes, the mornings start out much more frigid than the actual day itself- this is something he's used to, on top of temperatures that sometimes slip below zero from freezing Gotham winters. 

Of course, he's used to many things that normal people aren't: his pain threshold is higher than most, his patience for bullshit is through the roof. You have to be patient, in Gotham; whether it's when dealing with criminals or your own family, that's the one skill Tim had perfected long before taking up the mantle as Robin.

Even walking silently is a trait he'd come to the manor with. He'd spent many nights sneaking out into the city in order to trail his successor and Batman; then, he'd spent many mornings sneaking back in. Even besides the vigilante side of things- Tim has always known how to make himself small and silent. Adults do not want children who make noise-

Besides Bruce, apparently. Bruce collects children who are loud: Dick hardly ever stays silent for long and, though Jason does enjoy the quiet and solitude when he can get it, he's just as loud as their eldest brother when it comes down to it. While not really Bruce's daughter, Stephanie is boisterous. Duke, though he often played the "normal child card" just for the laugh, Even Cass and Damian, born to be as silent as Tim, had their moments. 

Alfred had, on occasion, referred to Tim as an "old soul". Of course, he also spoke the same of Damian in the boy's better moments; Tim and Damian were about as different as one could get. 

Well, he supposed that isn't actually true. But, he digresses. 

An "old soul"- While Tim wasn't like most other children, he wouldn't go as far as to say that he was old. Or, at least, _acted_ like someone older. He acted like a good child; not one that regularly shattered windows and chandeliers. 

He wasn't always a good child. He stressed Bruce out to the point where he grew grey hairs, both from his poor sleeping habits and his, sometimes, reckless behavior out in the field. When you threw Tim into a room with his friends- or Dick- he'd cause just as much havoc as Jason when pulling some sort of prank. 

Tim sucks in a breath, trying to clear out his head. He hears voices rounding the corner and instinctively pauses. There's no chance that he'll get in trouble for roaming around the manor- in his pajamas, no less; in fact, he's more likely to get a smile for being awake and out of bed so early than to get yelled at for anything else. Knowing that doesn't really quell the panic. 

He coaches his expression into something more lax when Bruce steps around the corner, dressed in funny shorts with sharks and flames patterned over it. Tim realizes they're swim shorts almost as quickly as he registers the beach towel swung over Bruce's shoulder- still dry and folded, so he hadn't just got back from somewhere. 

Beside him is Alfred, holding a bundle of multicoloured towels of his own. Each is cleanly folded and meticulously pressed: Tim can see that there's just enough for each of his siblings, including Steph. They're also colour-coded, obviously: blue for Dick, green for Damian, purple for Steph. There's a yellow one for Duke and two different shades of red for Jason and Tim, assumedly, and then there's a final rainbow one, splattered in shapes, for Cass. 

"Master Timothy," greets Alfred, once he sees him. "Good morning." 

Bruce's greeting comes in the form of ruffling Tim's hair, upsetting the already awful bedhead he'd been sporting. "How'd you sleep?" he asks. 

In response, Tim gives little more than a shrug. He's hardly in the mood for speaking. He gives the towels a questioning gaze. A summer day would be wonderfully spent swimming, but he's not so sure he's up for a full-family excursion today. 

"We were just about to come wake you up," explains Bruce, gesturing to the towels. "We're going canoeing." 

Tim fights back a full body cringe. He's _very_ sure he's not up for _canoeing,_ either. 

Even if Tim had attempted to subdue the reaction, Bruce- and Alfred- catch it. There's just no getting around the Bat, unless he's severely sleep deprived and hopped up on painkillers. Even then, there's no getting around the Butler. Funny how the stories never tell you how frighteningly perceptive the household staff-turned family can be. 

"Not a fan?" Bruce asks, a fond smile stretching over his lips. Tim shakes his head- it's a lot more than just being a "fan" or not, but he supposes that's as close as he'll get to saying _no way in hell_ at the moment. Bruce gives his back a pat. "It's Cass and Damian's first time going, so we'll take it slow. Go on up and get changed- we'll grab everyone else." 

Bruce pulls one of the towels out of the pile at random and plops it down into Tim's arms. It's the yellow one; startlingly bright for eight in the morning. 

Then, Bruce and Alfred disappear up the stairs, and Tim feels something churn deep in his chest. 

* * *

Everyone piles up into the van- a large, sleek black vehicle that makes the "soccer mom" vibe seem classy. The drive takes just long enough that Damian pales a few shades from his spot in the middle- right between Dick and Stephanie- and Jason- seated beside Tim and Duke in the way back- starts going green around the edges. For two people who claim to not be afraid of anything, thinks Tim, they get carsick awfully easily. 

Because Alfred has the manor to himself for the day- a "gift" laden with a chance for peace and quiet after a hectic week of patching up his grandchildren- Cass has claimed the front seat for herself. Tim wonders if she, too, gets carsick. Maybe it's an assassin thing. 

While Tim doesn't get motion or carsick like them, he still spends the ride feeling downright nauseous. Anxiety bubbles up in his gut at the thought of slipping into the canoe- perhaps it would be better if they were going _kayaking_ instead, but even then, he still feels as though he'd be singing the same tune. 

He wishes he'd, instead, come up with some sort of lie so he could've stayed home. He wishes he'd spoken up and told Bruce: _hey, I'm not really into canoeing. Maybe I could stay home?_ At least then he could be tucked away in his room, avoiding Alfred, doing casework, and talking with Kon over the phone. At least then he could be anywhere other than here, standing on the shoreline of the closest lake as Bruce chats away with some far too preppy woman in order to secure a few boats. 

_Are canoes even considered boats?_ Tim wonders, now. It feels as though the car ride passed in a flash of distractions and worry. They're all dressed to the nines in life jackets- though Jason and Duke's keeps "mysteriously" disappearing- swimwear, and flip flops. Stephanie long ago abandoned her shoes and sports a vivid pink anklet in its place. Cass has on sunglasses that she stole from Dick- large, atrocious blue things than no man on earth would be caught dead in.

Unless you're Cass. She makes it work, somehow. 

Dick's the one that divides them up: Tim and Damian with him, since he proclaims that he's the "safest" bet; Jason and Bruce together, no matter how much Jason complains he'd rather get a kayak; Duke, Cass, and Stephanie pairing up in order to show Cass how canoeing _really_ goes.

Tim is very not pleased and it doesn't look like Damian is either. The two of them stare sullenly at the rack of canoes and kayaks piled up neatly, one over the other. Damian, naturally, seems much more angry than Tim- Tim's just trying to keep down the berries and yogurt he had for breakfast. 

They must stand there for a long time before Jason materializes behind them, grabbing at the straps on Damian's life jacket and hoisting him off of his feet. Damian snarls, kicking out at him, and Jason asks, "You're not _scared_ are you?" 

Tim, who hasn't said a single word all day, finds something locked in his throat: _yes. Yes, I really, really am._ He chastises himself a moment later. He's a Bat and has no reason to fear something as minor as a canoe. They've faced worse things in the streets. And, besides, Dick wouldn't let anything bad happen to Damian and, by extent, Tim. Even if Damian decides that drowning would be the perfect way to get rid of his brother, it's not as if he'll go through with it with Dick there. 

"Oh, shove it," Damian growls. (Tim can almost hear Dick's smile- _look at him, using slang!)_ "I am the heir to the al Ghul legacy- as if I'd be afraid of a piece of floating plastic." 

Cass, who'd slunk up sometime during Damian's alarmed shouting, signs: _No shame in being afraid, baby brother._

_Yeah,_ Tim thinks, _there really is._

* * *

Possibly to make up for the fact that Dick's swim shorts are neon orange with green highlights, their canoe is a nice, neutral brown. 

Duke, Cass, and Stephanie had departed just moments earlier. They're still close enough that Tim can hear them shouting to each other- Cass, after getting stuck in the middle, seems to be having the time of her life. Bruce and Jason on the other hand sit staring at their own canoe, hands on their hips. 

"Ass in," orders Jason.

"You first," says Bruce. "I'll push us off." 

Damian pipes up from inside their own canoe: "I have gone fishing with Father before. I don't need all of this coddling, Grayson." 

The coddling in question is hardly _coddling._ Dick's just attempting to tell Damian that, because he's the smallest, he'll end up in the middle of the boat, unable to row. Possibly for the first time in Tim's life, he hopes that the two never stop bickering. That way, he can stay on dry land for as long as he wants. He would much rather dive into the water of his own accord, rather than have Dick shove the canoe into the water while he's in it. 

"Dames, that's just the way it is. That's why Cass is in the middle of her canoe- and we _all_ know she could paddle it fine on her own." 

Tim realizes that Damian has acquired one of their paddles. He brandishes it like a staff, despite being seated, and asks: "Drake, you're hardly strong enough to paddle for us. I'll do it for you." 

That's fine by him. Tim just shrugs once more and keeps staring away at the water until Dick presses a hand to his back, urging him forth. 

"If we sink," he says, while Tim slowly crawls inside- it feels more like a plastic _coffin_ than a boat and the thought makes him shiver- "it's your fault." 

Damian rolls his eyes. Tim sits down in the center of the canoe and keeps breathing. "We will not _sink._ I am adept at sea travel on larger vessels- something as negligible as _canoeing_ should be perfectly fine. Push us off- I don't want Todd taking the lead." 

With a long- very long, yet fond- sigh, Dick does as ordered. 

The canoe wobbles and Tim grips the rim with white knuckles. 

* * *

When he was little- perhaps six or seven- his parents brought him up to one of their lake houses. More often than not, they wouldn't have bothered to take him with them; this time, though, they were meeting up with another rich couple who had a son a few years older than Tim. 

The two families agreed to bring along their children: perhaps they'd become friends. Of course, in this instance, becoming friends more or less meant securing future deals between their two family industries. Tim no longer remembers the kid, but he _does_ remember the family name: The Rockwells. 

Nowadays, the Rockwell's work mainly centers around a booming overseas industry focused on withdrawing oil from deep in the ground. They haven't stepped foot in Gotham in years: if they had, Tim would've seen them at the monthly Wayne Gala- at least, the ones his parents remembered to bring him to. (Or, more recently, the ones he _decides_ to go to.) 

True to their name, the Rockwells had a very _rocky_ relationship with one another. Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell were constantly at each other's throats no matter the setting. Tim remembers thinking: _at least_ my _parents know to keep their fights_ private.

One of their excursions while at this lake house centered around canoeing. Tim had never gone before but the Rockwells _loved_ it- loved it so much that they said, "Why don't _we_ take Tim? He'll have such a blast!" 

The Drakes were always excited to find time without Tim- perhaps that's why they agreed so readily. They were soon saddled with the Rockwell's son. Tim could tell by their expressions that they weren't very happy about this either, but they'd made their bed. Now they had to lie in it.

Tim had to lie in his, too. 

The morning went well enough: Tim sat, hands clasped in his lap, on the floor of the canoe. It was a plastic green, the sort that you could just faintly see light through if you were shrouded in darkness beneath it. His life vest was just a tad bit too large. Every so often, he wrapped his hands around the straps and pulled it back down onto his shoulders; it kept riding up to his ears, irritating his neck. 

Mr. and Mrs. Rockwell didn't talk to him much. In fact, they didn't talk at all. The only sound Tim could hear was the ever-present rock of the water splish-splashing against the canoe's side and the paddles coming up-and-down and up-and-down. 

The sound was soothing. 

Too bad the Rockwells started to fight. 

* * *

Tim takes back what he said earlier, about hoping that Damian and Dick would keep fighting. He'd wanted that _earlier,_ certainly, while they were still on land. Now that they're in the middle of the lake, Tim wants nothing more than peace, quiet, and stable ground. 

Each time the canoe lurches, Tim feels himself grow paler. Each time Damian throws in another snide comment- he hadn't been paying attention to what started the bickering and quickly realized he didn't want to know- all he hears is a high pitched, snooty voice accusing her husband of being an idiot. 

_Just quit it already,_ Tim thinks. _Just quit it._

* * *

The Rockwell's argument had bled into the background, an ever present track overlapping the peaceful sounds of nature. Tim hadn't really been upset by the fighting so much as uncomfortable- he didn't _know_ this couple and hearing Mr. Rockwell accuse Mrs. Rockwell of being a ninny wasn't his idea of a fun time. 

It got even worse when they started bringing in personal habits. The yelling that had started over Mr. Rockwell- apparently- not knowing how to row the right way soon evolved into insulting the other's eating habits. From there, they exploded into a heated debate on whether or not the other even _cared_ about them. Mrs. Rockwell accused her husband of controlling her and of expecting her to "sit back" and let him do whatever he pleased. 

Tim was accustomed to hearing adults- especially married couples like his own parents- argue. He knew that sometimes these fights ended with shattered glass and broken hearts. 

He just didn't realize how _long_ they could go on for. 

* * *

Tim squeezes his eyes shut almost as hard as he's holding onto the bench. He's pretty sure that by the time he actually gets up, there will be indents from his fingers. 

_Property damage,_ he thinks, a little hysterically. _Perfect._

He thinks that someone might be calling his name. As if he's listening- all he's focused on is how much the boat rocks and how loud his heart is beating. 

* * *

At some point, Mr. Rockwell docked the kayak at a series of tall, round rocks that jut out of the water. He crawled out of it in order to yell at his wife better- or something- and Mrs. Rockwell curled her fingers into fists. 

Tim knew exactly what she was going to do before she did it. She stood up in the canoe, upsetting the balance. Then, she went to step out of it onto a nearby rock and the entire thing flipped over- still with Tim inside. 

* * *

There is nothing Tim recalls more vividly than the way the world muffled beneath the canoe. He could hardly hear the Rockwells screaming at each other. Instead, the waves and the water had overtaken their voices, just as they had done to it earlier. 

He also remembers being panicked, in a subdued sort of way. One moment, the world had been bright: the sun shone down on his face, bathing him in warmth, and there hadn't been a single cloud in that big, bright blue sky. The next moment, everything went _dark._ Not pitch black, not exactly: everything was tinted green from the canoe, turning what Tim could see into something straight out of a boss battle from a Disney movie. 

He struggled for purchase on the rocks- if he extended his toes just a little further, they brushed over the slippery surface. He was surrounded by them and the sides of the bobbing canoe- years down the line, he'll have wondered why he didn't just swim beneath the surface, even if he knows the answer. He was shell shocked with fear. 

His first instinct was to stay quiet. Someone would come and get him out without a problem. Things would go easier for him if he didn't make any noise. 

But, time passed. He realized no one was coming for him.

It was Murky. Dark. There was horrid, distant yelling. 

Tim cried out, pounding on the sides of the canoe. His body pulled down into the water but his life jacket kept him upright, the shoulders of it rising back up to his ears and cutting into his skin. _"I'm under here!"_

Perhaps they were so absorbed in their fighting that they didn't hear him. He _hopes_ that's what it was- for no one flipped over the canoe. Even when he screamed- once, twice more- the boat stayed resting above his head. Minutes passed and he shoved at one of the corners of the boat with his hand. 

More minutes. 

_More_ minutes. 

_They've forgotten about me,_ thought Tim. He was no longer sure if he was hearing their voices or if he was simply hearing the static rising through his ears. Hot, sticky tears slipped down his face and, because his hands were white-knuckled where they gripped at the straps of his life vest, he couldn't wipe them away. 

_I am going to be here forever,_ called an irrational six-year-old thought. _They've completely forgotten about me._

Perhaps he would die- Tim recalls spending hundreds of nights before this own, paralyzed with fear in his bed as he thought about the _after._ Six year old Tim was petrified by the idea that death would take him while he slept and then he'd never even have the chance to know it. He obsessed over it: he imagined his entire life, living it fully up until the moment he grew old and grey. Then everything would suddenly cut off and he would be no more. 

There would be no after. 

He did not want this to be the last thing he ever did. 

With a voice thick with tears, he slammed his palms against the canoe and cried, _"Help!"_

He doesn't really remember, anymore, if he'd stayed down there for any longer. He doesn't remember if, instead, the canoe was flipped as soon as that syllable rang out. 

Either way, he _does_ remember the moment that the canoe was lifted and he was assaulted with sunlight, peering down at him ever so curiously. He turned his head up to see his father, standing with a hand resting on the rim of his own canoe. His brows were furrowed and his lips were pressed into a disapproving frown.

Tim almost wished he'd stayed silent. 

* * *

Something jolts the entire canoe. A loud sound tears through the air and Tim doesn't register it until a few moments pass: Dick has docked the canoe on a small stretch of dark coloured sand. When Tim tries to gather himself, he notices Dick's worried stare. His brother crouches down beside him, though Tim's still inside and Dick is not. 

"You with me?" he asks. 

Tim nods. 

"Okay. Let's get you out of here." Dick extends a hand and Tim takes it, allowing himself to be gently pulled from the stomach of the boat. Then, Dick guides him up the beach before pressing on his shoulder. Tim, obediently, takes a seat. 

It's then that he sees Damian, standing with the water up to his ankles. Just like it had been in the car, his skin is shades paler than normal. He fiddles with his own hands, clasped together and brought up to his chest, staring at Tim and Dick with a constipated expression. 

"Can you tell me what happened?" Dick asks, next. 

He returns his gaze to Dick and finds his voice. "Nothing, Dick." 

Dick's brows furrow. His lips press into a disapproving frown.

Tim's gut tries out for the Olympics. 

* * *

The ride back to shore was spent as a shivering heap in his parent's canoe, staring at the Rockwell's son. His eyes were red and puffy and his back was pressed against his father's leg. He listened to his mother as she complained about a ruined trip- 

"You didn't have to yell at them," she told Mr. Drake. 

"I hardly yelled at them," Mr. Drake returned. 

It felt a little like catharsis to know that his dad _had_ sort of yelled at the Rockwells for leaving Tim under the canoe while they fought. Once he was uncovered, he'd realized that the Rockwells had only been a couple of yards away from him, screaming at each other loud enough that it probably scared away all of the fish. 

His father had been curt with them: curt enough that Mrs. Drake was worried that the Rockwells would never go on vacation with them again. 

Mrs. Drake clicked her tongue. "You're making a big deal out of nothing." 

Tim knew what she meant by that: she was dismissing what had happened as nothing important. 

She was probably right, he thought. After all- he hadn't been down there for all that long. He was just panicked and the panic made it seem worse than it actually was. His mom was right. Tim was making a big deal out of nothing. 

He was _always_ making a big deal out of nothing, it seemed. 

* * *

"That's the first thing you've said all day," Damian speaks up, inching forward. "And it was a _lie."_

Tim isn't sure if his cheeks heat up or if he loses all colour. He realizes how much he's ruining Damian's first canoe trip, sitting here on the beach after making a big deal out of nothing. The rocking of the canoe had made his mind go white with panic.

At least he hadn't been the one paddling, he thinks a little bitterly. Then he thinks that, perhaps, it would have been better if he was paddling. Then he would've been lost in the motion and wouldn't have ruined all of this. 

Or, maybe he would have. He's not really sure. 

"I'm serious," says Tim, voice croaky. "I'm just-" 

Dick's tone is warning as he says, "Tim."

Part of Tim wishes that he had a shovel. That way he could dig a hole in the ground and hide in it. At the same time, that doesn't sound very fun. He wouldn't want to bury himself. Based on what Jason has said about it, it's rated much less than one star. 

_C'mon, stop cracking nervous jokes,_ he urges. _This isn't some kind of vigilante thing._

He's not fighting anyone so he doesn't need any horrible jokes or stellar one-liners. He's sitting in front of Dick, who's looking at him like he can't decide whether to be disappointed that Tim is lying or concerned that he'd gone white with fear. He's sitting in front of Dick, who loves him and always tries to help him. He's-

He's making a big deal out of nothing. A _huge_ deal out of nothing. For one, he's making Dick worried for no reason. (And Damian? Maybe?) Two, he's ruining Damian's first canoe trip. 

Is there a three? There might be. Maybe it's the fact that he's not being a very good kid, at the moment. If he were with his parents, they'd lose their minds.

He closes his eyes and draws in another breath, only for Dick to grab at his hand and squeeze it. Damian steps closer one more time before he settles onto the ground near Dick, legs folded beneath him. Though his eyes are on his brother's, his finger traces shapes in the sand. 

"Cassandra said that there is no shame in being afraid," he says, quietly. 

Dick's eyes widen alongside Tim's. Neither of them had expected Damian to speak up- let alone to try and _help._ Tim would've thought Damian would open his mouth to berate him once more; to tell him, _quit overreacting so we can go back on the water._

"And she's right." Dick begins rubbing his thumb over the back of Tim's hand, toes wiggling. _"Were_ you afraid?"

Tim pulls his knees up to his chest and wraps his arms around them. Then, he settles his forehead in the crook between his knees. "I'm making a big deal out of nothing," he replies, muffled by his legs. 

"That's not just _nothing,_ Tim."

He almost wants to snarl back. Everything throughout his life has been built on this solid idea that he's just overreacting. Not having his parents around, losing those close to him- he can't just lose himself in those feelings. He's overreacting. Making a big deal out of nothing. Taking it all out of context. 

Tim breathes in again. He says, "It's okay, Dick." 

With a sigh, Dick runs a hand through his hair. The other one pauses to squeeze Tim's hand once more. His voice trails off for a moment as though he's trying to figure out what to say. _If it's so hard,_ Tim thinks, _then why bother?_

"Canoeing is a waste of time," Damian declares, climbing to his feet. "I would rather swim. It's more effective and beneficial." 

_Is he... trying to sympathize?_ Tim's head shoots up, but he's unable to catch Damian's eyes. No, for Damian's already at the water's edge, his back turned to both his brothers. He grabs at the canoe and shoves it back out in the water as Dick shouts at him- _it's not ours- we rented that!_

Somehow, despite the fact that the waves keep rocking it towards the shore, the canoe eventually floats out into the lake proper. It's close enough that they could swim for it if they tried, but Damian looks so damn proud when he twists around that Tim's pretty sure Dick's not even _thinking_ of a rescue mission. 

Plus, it's so out of character. _Extremely_ out of character. Damian, normally, would be the one screaming about _keeping_ the canoe as either Jason or Dick shoved it away.

Tim, without thinking about it, barks out a laugh. 

Dick stands speechless, staring out at the water. Damian has his hands wrapped in the straps of his life jacket, nervously yanking at them as he gauges Dick's reaction. The canoe bobs up and down way out in the great beyond.

Tim just keeps on laughing and, soon enough, Dick joins in. 

It's a messy end to a messy day.

* * *

Eventually, Bruce and Jason find their canoe. It drives Bruce into a panic up until the point that Jason sees them all gathered on the beach. 

They end up towing the canoe back to shore. When they hit the beach, Tim can see how _drenched_ both Bruce and Jason are. Water pools in the bottom of their own canoe and he immediately knows, from Jason's shit-eating grin and Bruce's weary gaze, Jason hasn't been very kind during their own trip. 

"Ass in!" Jason cheers, once more. He gestures to the empty canoe and Dick, just as weary as Bruce, shakes his head in warning. 

Just as Jason's smile fades into pure confusion, Damian races forward and gives the canoe another shove. "This experience has been unpleasant!" he half-yells, as if he's been personally offended by the outing. "I would much rather be swimming or hiking." 

Tim's nerves have leapt back into action upon Bruce's reappearance, but even he can't keep himself from smiling. He does cringe at the note to hiking- Tim isn't a very big fan of it, not like most of his brothers. 

"How are you going to get back to the car?" Bruce asks Damian, as he continues to throw a fit. Tim and Dick both realize it's staged- (at least, assuming from the smile Dick attempts to hide)- but neither Bruce or Jason do. 

"I'll swim," Damian declares. 

Jason scoffs, far more amused by all of this than Bruce. "Oh, quit being a brat. You'd drop dead before you got there." 

_"You'd_ know all about it, wouldn't you?" Damian shoots back. "I've swam greater distances back home with Mother." 

"Yeah? I bet you're a real Olympic gold medalist." 

"For your information-" 

Bruce, caught in the middle, attempts, "Boys-" 

"I think you should be diagnosed as a _pathological liar-"_

"Bold statement from a overgrown-" 

"Boys!" 

As Bruce, Jason, and Damian descend into an argument- one that ended with Jason picking Damian up by the straps of his life jacket once more in order to drop him into _his_ canoe- Dick turns to Tim. 

"You know," he says, eyeing the stretch of sand beside them. "We're not _really_ that far from the parking lot. We could always walk it."

For the most part, the sand stretches all the way around the outskirts of the lake. While the part they're standing on is cut off from the next segment by rocks and trees, Tim knows that the water will be shallow enough for them to trudge through in order to round it. It's the fastest way to get back that doesn't involve the canoe _and_ it reminds Tim of long, summer days when Dick would bring him and Damian up to a section of a river side and dance along the rocks that lined the water. 

"Really?" 

"Yeah." Dick shrugs. "We'll just have to sacrifice Dames." 

They both share a look and, just like that, they're off.

**Author's Note:**

> me: hey, let's take this incredibly obscure thing that i literally can't get out of my head and make tim suffer it :) 
> 
> LIKE SKLDJGH OKAY ??


End file.
